


My grief will never go

by dragon_rider



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve changed, sir. I wish you could be here to see it. I wish you could be here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My grief will never go

 

> “The tears I feel today  
>  I'll wait to shed tomorrow.  
>  Though I'll not sleep this night  
>  Nor find surcease from sorrow.  
>  My eyes must keep their sight:  
>  I dare not be tear-blinded.  
>  I must be free to talk  
>  Not choked with grief, clear-minded.  
>  My mouth cannot betray  
>  The anguish that I know.  
>  Yes, I'll keep my tears til later:  
>  But my grief will never go.”  
>  ― Anne McCaffrey, _Dragonsinger._

* * *

He’s been avoiding to come here for months but there is no more time for stalling, for cowering from this.

He’s been talking to Pike in his head for months, stubborn and childish in his denial of his death, but doing so standing in front of his grave is… challenging, for one thing, and also wrong. Very, very wrong, for another.

Sometimes, when he tries hard enough, he can even listen to Pike answering to him and wouldn’t that be wrong too? To stop listening to his advises, to his perfectly timed chiding, to his unbreakable faith in him no matter how much of a disappointment Jim can be?

He blinks, vision going blurry as he stares at the name of his mentor. He wants to read the epitaph, but can’t get past it. A choked-off sound escapes his lips and he blinks rapidly to stop himself from crying.

He hasn’t cried since that day—the day he was too late, the day he couldn’t save Pike, the day the last thing he saw of the man he loves like the Father he never had were his unnatural fixed eyes, the gaping wound in the right side of his chest, the spasms racking his body as he agonized.

Of all the people Jim has failed to save, he's the one that hurts the most.

Even in this, Jim is selfish. He doesn’t want Pike alive for Starfleet, for the war that sooner or later will come against the Klingons or the Romulans or whoever else takes advantage of the missing limb the Federation has without Vulcan.

He wants him alive for himself, wants him alive because he wants to.

He wants to be scolded, to be yelled at when he’s at his upmost idiocy. He wants to look at Pike’s eyes while he’s at it and inwardly think to himself _why does he act like he actually gives a damn?_ and then realize, shocked to the bone, _he cares, he cares, he cares!_

He wants to feel that no matter how much he screws up, there will always be someone who cares about him, someone who will try to get him out of whatever shithole he manages to get himself into even if Jim never understands where it all comes from—the faith, the will to stick their neck on the line for him.

His crew does that for him too. Jim doesn’t know what he did to deserve them and their loyalty, but he’s looking forward to the next five years of his life on the Enterprise or however long he gets before dying again, before dying for good.

He will die protecting them again if he has to. He will not lose them, not like he lost Pike. It’s not something he’s promising to himself or to anybody. It’s a fact.

“I’ve changed, sir,” he murmurs brokenly, that cut-off sob making its ugly appearance again before he swallows it down, “I wish you could be here to see it. I wish you could be _here_.”

He looks up at the sunny sky of San Francisco, tipping his head back enough to keep the tears in his eyes, chest constricting with the grief he’s been sidestepping for almost a year.

A bird chirps on a tree a couple of feet away from where he’s standing. He’s sure it’s supposed to be cheery but it sounds doubtful and dull to his ears.

With a bitter quirk on his lips, he tries again.

He blinks, looks at the tombstone filled with bouquets and gifts in front of him.

 _In remembrance of Christopher Pike_.

_Bold and skilled Admiral. Protector of worlds. Embodiment of the highest values of Starfleet._

He shuts his eyes tight and presses on them with his fingers, can't keep going. He’s biting his lip but that doesn’t stop his jaw from trembling and it’s hard to keep the single white tulip he’s holding in his hand intact but he manages.

He can’t leave until he’s read it all and he knows that once he’s finished, he’s going to regret yet another thing, yet another mistake he made because he wasn’t strong enough.

He was asked about what he wanted to add. He was asked several times actually, once he regained consciousness in Starfleet Medical.

And he'd known—he'd known at once what he wanted there, what he never got the chance to tell Pike himself.

_Beloved father._

He thought it was presumptuous of him. He shut his mouth, settled for _beloved friend_ and convinced himself it was the right thing to do. He knew Pike had no family outside of Starfleet he could piss off with his nerve, but who was he to make such a claim? Just a fuck-up from nowhere, Iowa, with a criminal record to his name and lots of luck under the direst of circumstances. They lost Vulcan and half of Starfleet, Jim gained his Captaincy. They almost lost everything to the hands of a mad man and Jim did not only gain his life back but got a shiny new ship and a 5 year mission to sail her to.

He would give it all back for Pike to live. There’s no doubt in his head he would be a better Captain after spending time as his First Officer and he’s sure he could’ve talked him into getting Spock back on board as Science Officer. Everything would've been _fine_ if he had just—if he had just _saved_ him.

This time when he makes a noise, there’s no denying it’s a sob. He doesn’t know _why_ he keeps imagining all these scenarios in his head. What if’s, could have’s, _should_ have’s. It changes nothing.

Pike is dead. Jim will have to figure out how to be a good Captain without him.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He’s alone in the memorial park but he doesn’t have all the time in the world for this. He has a speech to prepare, arrangements to assist with for the voyage ahead.

A part of him only wants to leave the flower and run the hell out of there, wants to turn his back on this and never look back again.

Another part of him wants to scratch what he wanted to write on the stone until his nails are bloody and the epitaph is complete.

Mostly, he just wants to cry but he’s too afraid to let go, of what truly accepting Pike is _gone_  and never coming back would mean.

With grief clotting his throat, he takes a knee on the ground and leaves the tulip, finally reading the last words in Pike’s gravestone.

_Beloved friend, father and partner._

_You will always be dearly missed._

Gasping, he touches the words with shaky fingertips when rereading them doesn’t make them go away.

“I know, Jim,” a familiar voice says behind him, accent thick in a way that tells Jim he’s not the only one withholding tears, “I know what he meant to you. He knew it, too, he was a smart man, don’t you think he didn’t know.”  
Jim straightens and turns, gives him a watery smile as hello. “Bones.”

He’s not surprised to see him there. Bones hasn’t left Jim out of his sight for too long after he woke up. Jim is used and kinda likes—loves—having him around so much, doesn't know what he'd do without him, at this point.

He wants to say thank you but knows his voice won’t hold steady enough for that. And it doesn’t seem like Bones needs to hear it. He just kneels next to Jim, squeezes his shoulder and puts his arms around him when Jim crumbles and finally starts crying.

For a long moment, Jim can’t hear anything but blood rushing in his ears and his own wrecked sobs.

“Doesn’t matter that you never told him, Jim, it’s what you felt what does,” Bones says after Jim breathes in deeply and blinks against his now damp dress uniform.  
“I miss him,” Jim mumbles, muffled and terrified, closing his eyes against the crushing weight of the admission, “Bones, I miss him and I don’t know how to stop it.”  
Bones holds him tighter, hand cradling his head to his chest, voice firm, rumbling gently against Jim’s ear. “You don’t have to, Jim. You don’t have to say goodbye to his memory. You can keep it close, keep it alive. You’re allowed to miss him for as long as you live.”

Jim stutters a sigh, feeling lightheaded and wrung out as that sinks in, as he repeats it over and over in his head because it sounds right and it feels right and there’s nothing else he can do.

He won't ever forget Pike. He can't. 

If the man himself can't go with him, can't be there for him when he needs him, Jim will carry his memory everywhere and make the most of it that he can. Sometimes that won't be enough, he's aware of it as much as he is of the big chance he'll screw up royally again, but he's going to do it anyway.

It's still more than Jim thought he deserved, more than he thought he was ever going to have.

For a little over four years, Jim had a _father_.

Slowly, he loosens his grip on Bones’ jacket.

Bones’ arms relax in response and Jim breaks apart enough to see him.

Bones is frowning and, alright, that's not weird at all, but his eyes are bright and worried and Jim ducks his head almost as soon as their eyes meet, knows what’s coming next.

Bones cups his face with both hands, wipes Jim's cheeks with his thumbs and stays quiet until Jim looks at him again.

“What you’re not allowed to do is to blame yourself for this, for his death, to carry a weight that's not yours on your shoulders. You did what you could, Jim, you—“  
“But if I had been just a minute quicker in figuring out what Khan was about to do he wouldn’t have been there, Bones! We would’ve evacuated the room and he’d be—“  
“Alive,” Bones fills in. Jim swallows heavily, “Yes, but for how long? Jim, with or without you on the chair, Marcus was going to send the Enterprise to her doom with all of us on board. You’ve got to stop tormenting yourself with the possibilities. Maybe this was the best case scenario we could’ve asked for, maybe it wasn’t. What I know for sure—what _you_ know, too, deep inside that thick skull of yours—is that you did all you could. You gave it all, Jim, you gave away your _life._ Tell me, what else was there for you to do?”  
Jim hiccups. His own death is a sore subject that he knows Bones has a hard time bringing up. “I don’t know, Bones, but I just—I can’t—“  
“Believe it. I know,” sighing, Bones guides him back into his arms, chin tucked firmly on top of his head like he's just as drained as Jim feels, “But you will, someday.”

Jim goes meekly, lets himself be soothed, at least for now.

The bird sings again. It's louder and different, not in the tune, but in the feeling it brings to him this time.

It sounds hopeful, almost heart-warming.

He smiles faintly. “Bones?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Thanks.”

Next time, leaving his tulip—his apology—won't be this hard.

Next time, he'll have stories to tell and share, to leave as the only kind of gift he thinks Pike would've liked.


End file.
